


Diary of The Woman

by Sabrina_Phynn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabrina_Phynn/pseuds/Sabrina_Phynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>first actual written fanfic ever. Do try and be kind.<br/>OK, after like a year and a half of reading, researching, and day dreaming, I took the plunge into fan fiction.  Better brush up on your Canon, as well as your Baring-Gould. This is neither Richieverse nor the BBC, but hang on, because it is still a wild ride!<br/>WIP and desperately seeking a beta!</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> first actual written fanfic ever. Do try and be kind.  
> OK, after like a year and a half of reading, researching, and day dreaming, I took the plunge into fan fiction. Better brush up on your Canon, as well as your Baring-Gould. This is neither Richieverse nor the BBC, but hang on, because it is still a wild ride!  
> WIP and desperately seeking a beta!

 

Whatever they say about me, don't believe the half of it.

Diva? Oh, yes. Coquette? Most certainly. But never, my dears, anything so common as a thief.

Well ... If I were presented with tokens along the way from admirers, baubles that were not exactly theirs to give- well, now that is not MY fault, is it? Shameless, how those men could get away with telling their wives that I had stolen their jewels; though I will admit, much easier than admitting they had been fools for a pretty songbird's face.

But that is not the story you want to hear from me, is it. No, I did not think so.

Pull up a chair and get a cup of something hot, this could take a while.

I must start at the very beginning, with the King.

But what to say of Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, the hereditary King of Bohemia?

I was foolish; I was very young and twice as headstrong. At first it was a mild diversion away from the Opera house. He was, as all men were, infatuated and I, frankly, impressed.  A prince… and we did have our fun, for a while. Then he turned cruel and petty. I did not set out to ruin him, at least not before he set me aside like one of his many toys. He then started such rumors about me... I do not suffer such indignities well. I never wanted money from that overgrown boy, merely respect. Which in the end, I must admit, was gained. After several amateur attempts he did send the very best in London after me to retrieve his precious cabinet.

For that, and that alone, he may nearly be forgiven, or at least be thought of little more kindly. But I get ahead of myself.

 

As for Godfery Norton- we were indeed quite happy for a short time, but in the end, it was not in my nature to be caged in any way, however willingly.  I was within the year restless, and within two he was both unwell and unfaithful.  The mistress I would have forgiven, but the concealment of his illness with one my greatest fears and neglect to tell me of his consumption? Unforgivable. Godfery Norton of the Inner Temple died within that next year, an accident while taking the air at the Sarnac Lake Sanatorium.  The overturned carriage contained both him and someone only assumed to be his wife.  I made to claim to refute this assumption, taking the chance to return to European life and a fresh start.  

 

And so it was that I found myself again in London, in the fall of 1890. I was staying with an old friend, a retired ballet dancer lately retired and recently married to her patron.  She had done well for herself, I had to say,  as he was adoring, kind and not the least of which,  exceedingly well- off.  On a whim, we decided to attend an afternoon concert.  I did this as much to assuage my friend as get out of the house.

And that was the day I first clearly saw His true face; that of the most intriguing Sherlock Holmes.

  



	2. Curiosity

The program was a shade too German for my taste, but it mattered little. My dear friend Tatiania was right to guide me out of the house- I was bored and in a foul mood to boot. I distracted myself with observing the crowd, the latest fashions, and the way the soloist's bald pate bobbed with his vehement bowing. 

Nearing intermission, Tatiana tugged at my sleeve, disturbing my musings on the new taste in dyed ostrich plumes, " 'Rene, look! Is that... if I'm not mistaken, that's Dr Watson over in row across the hall- "

"Hmm?" I lazily inquired, thoughts still on my next trip to the milliners', and which color plume might suit me better, peach or red. 

"Er? I doubt he's alone. I could be wrong but - oh never mind- I suspect his comrade is asleep, or …"

I suddenly realized what my friend was insinuating. I had supposedly died in an accident nearly a month ago, a fact which could have been noted in the London scandal sheets as well as the more sedate newspapers; to be recognized now by the likes of anyone who might know me from my more colorful past would be, at the least, inopportune. As I focused my gaze across the hall, I relaxed to see Dr. Watson looking in the opposite direction, chatting with a fellow concert attendee. I caught just a glimpse of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, legs tucked under himself, with a languid smile drifting across his undisguised face, eyes closed. For the moment, I was not seen. 

"… or something. " my friend frowned. " Shall we leave?"  
I nodded, and kept my hat low over my face as we slipped out. I chanced one last glance over towards Holmes, eyes, still closed, fingers gently waving in the air perfectly in time with the end of the piece. More than just a music lover, I surmised as we left. Interesting. My boredom and foul mood vaporized, as we left and Ifound myself feeling more curious than I'd been.  
We walked back in silence and were nearly on Tatiana's door when I announced, "I need to stretch my legs. Don't hold up supper on my account."

She gave me a long; steady, look as she slowly shook her head, calling after me as I left, "You know you play with fire!"

The afternoon light had not yet faded; the walk was not particularly long. I slowed as I approached the well remembered block of Baker Street, pausing a few streets away from 221 to give myself time to think and plan. As I pretended to window shop, my reverie was interrupted by an urgent tug at my sleeve as a small, very dirty face appeared in the reflection of the windowpane of the aphthocary shop.

"Oy! 'es not there, ya know!"

I turned to face the urchin, annoyed and in surprise- was I so transparent?

"Of whom are you speaking, mon pétit?"

"Lady, " the boy rolled his eyes voice thick with sarcasm, "It's Baker Street; I know the regulars 'ere and no strangers ever come but to see Mr. 'Olmes. I'm Wiggins. He lets me know so that no one bothers waitin', specially ladies- they lets me keep the tips," he stretched out his hand awaiting a coin.

"Well, then, my good Wiggins," I smiled, pressing a penny into his palm, " It turns out I already knew that. Is the landlady in? "

" Oh, yeah- she don't go out much near dark anyhow, " he shrugged. "You know Mrs. H? "

I nodded, stalling for time. 

"Yeh, well, tell 'er she still owes me fer the new mouser, will ya? Two crumpets at least!"

I winked at him. "Two crumpets. "

"Thanks, lady. You're ever so much nicer than most of 'em who come round! "

Uh-oh. This could be trouble. I'd made an impression. This child knew Holmes, and was, for my good, was too clever by half. Still, the question was – to bribe or not?

Then he continued." … pretty too. Ya look a little like that picture 'e keeps in the drawer…" 

_Picture? He did not just say picture, did he! Oh, a now a bribe was certainly in order, or possibly something else._

"Say, Wiggins, could you find me a mouser? I'd pay you, not in crumpets either," I showed him a half crown. " Only, I'd rather you not say I'd been by. Would you mind?"

"Well… fer a lady, I guess so."

I breathed a sigh of relief inwardly and flipped him the coin, giving him Tania's address for delivery of the cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pay no attention to the Diva smashing crockery in the corner. She likes reviews. She'll be fine soon, I promise. Or at least I hope so … oh dear, now she's eyeing the crystal…  
> I wasn't sure what Wiggins was going to say! He's got orders to tell all, especially when bribed.  
> "You know, he never did tell," the Detective purred into the Diva's ear.  
> (Hey! I know that voice- which explains the sudden lack of smashing!. But seriously, you two.. Save it for later!)  
> It's slow starting, but She also doesn't like to be rushed, nor show her hand too soon. Bloody woman!  
> And if anyone suddenly gets the urge to be a beta-reader, don't be shy!


	3. Chapter 3

*********************************************************************************************************************************  
 _The ritual was always the same after the completion of a case: the congratulatory drink, either with Watson or the lead Inspector, then the return to Baker Street, alone. If nothing surfaced that could scratch that infernal inch for the unusual within the next few weeks, no matter what he tried, a singular lethargy would start to sink in; he could feel himself drifting into that most dangerous state, ennui, and the needle would yet again begin to tempt. He'd unlock the drawer, and flip open the picture just as the drug took effect._

*********************************************************************************************************************************

 

As I mused what to do next, the clock inside the shop I had been half glancing in sounded the hour. I had a scant hour before the concert was completed and I had no idea if Mr. Holmes' plans were to return immediately or otherwise. Action of some sort was called for, but this could be sticky. I walked on the rest of the block, and noting a few uneven patches of light filtering though the heavy drapes of the left front window, giving me the start of an idea. I decided to go with as simple as I could, and hope for the best, trying to stay as close to the truth as I could.

 

I went to the door and knocked. "Mrs. Hudson, I expect?" I started, mouth suddenly dry. For some reason, I did not attempt to hide my American accent, as I usually did.

"Yes," she responded wearily, but not unkindly, " and  you would be…? "

" Oh, sorry, I'm Clara ... " She sighed and cut me off with a cold stare. "I'm afraid, Miss Clara, that Mr. Holmes is ..." 

"Er- out, as I understood from young Wiggins- he accosted me earlier and wishes to remind you about payment in crumpets for a cat- no, I am here to inquire about the curtains, madam, not to …" 

"The curtains? I'm afraid I don't understand…" 

"oh!" I put on a hurt look, "I am sorry, I thought you had... There must have been a mix-up. I was sure that a friend of your sister's had mentioned to you that I might stop by at some time. I thought you were looking to have your front drapes repaired, I can see the holes from across the street, ma'am. I certainly did not mean to intrude, but I was hoping to be of some use to you. Good evening." I called as I turned to leave.

I was not going to risk any additional exposure, no matter how curious I might be.

She caught my arm with a strength I did not expect. "My dear, If you only knew how much I needed you! Please, by all means, come in, I was just putting on the kettle- I'll make us some tea and we'll see what can be arranged. "

I was then treated to nearly half an hour's worth of tea, crumpets, and general bemoaning over the eccentricities of her most unusual tenant. I did note the bemused smile ghosting the corners of her mouth from time to time as we chatted, however, as if she were noting the antics of a favorite, but naughty, child. By the time we got to the study upstairs she was completely in my trust, and left me to my repairs.

I opened my purse with the omnipresent tiny sewing kit and started in on the ragged tear, caused, I supposed, by an splash of something from the acid from one the various bottles on the well-worn sideboard. It took less time than I would have expected, even given the inflated estimate I'd given to Mrs. Hudson. I'd always been the quickest at repairs, as well as the best, which nearly always saddled me with the additional responsibility of being wardobe mistress and in costume repairs. I tied off the thread and cut it, returning the kit to my purse. That task completed, on the true reason I was here. 

I glanced around the room. There were papers everywhere: some stacked, some scattered on the floor. It looked comfortable enough, with the two high backed chairs flanking the fireplace. I removed two hairpins, letting down the back of my hair, and double-checked that I was not observed.

I sidled towards the desk, examining the contents as I went. The large bottom right drawer was full of notebooks; the left stuffed with yet more files and chemical notes. Top left drawer - old telegraphs, most from Scotland Yard. Right top drawer held forms for sending telegraphs. The right middle drawer was locked one. 

It was not a particular difficult lock to pick. 

So, mr. Holmes, time to let us discover what you feel is worth locking up, I smiled as I slowly opened the drawer. It was confusingly bare.  Rosin, a black, medical-looking case, and ah, there was the cabinet photograph.  I looked so young.  It was, I noted, not my best side. And as I recall that dress was stiff and far too uncomfortable for my tastes.

Still mystified as to why it was there, I considered my next move. Take it back? No, time was too limited; I could hear Mrs. Hudson rustling in the hall- she was certain to be returning in just a minute. Hmm. A note? Too obvious. I reached for the shears and clipped a single curl, tying it together with a single plucked hair, tucking the hairpin across it and placing it on top of the photo. "Well, we'll see what you make of THAT, Mister Holmes, " I murmured to myself as I relocked the drawer quickly with another hairpin and moved onto the next curtain to check for additional damage, as I called to Mrs. Hudson that I was done, at least for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I happen to mention I have a hard time writing the usual characters? Also, not like you hadn't guessed, but the Diva and the Detective belong entirely to themselves, or possibly to each other, and not to me at all.  
> Sorry these chapters are so short, still getting used to this whole process.  
> For those total Canon geeks, please note I am not going with the Baring-Gould's dates but with the dates used by Brad A. Keefauver as of 11/2001.
> 
> 'Brina.


	4. Chapter 4

I quickly made my way back to my friend Tatiana's home, only to find the household in turmoil and upheaval over the unexpected arrival of Wiggins' "mouser". 

It was a tiny thing, more fluffy fur than actual muscle, with tortoiseshell markings, barely ready to be away from her mother. Tania, of course, saw the kitten as a bad omen, refusing to listen to the sense that the cook and maids were telling her about the need for a means of control of the rodents in the house. As I arrived she was determining the best place to take the kitten to drown it. Looking at the tiny thing I had to admit it did not look like a killer; but as I knew appearances to be deceiving, I took up defending it.

"Tania, " I started, as I picked up the bit of fluff and scratched it ears, " I can- I will not - abide the practice of drowning cats. It seems to me it would be worse luck to kill such a little thing ... "

She was in no mood to hear me but, with the support of the staff, Tania at last agreed that the kitten could have a fortnight's trial period. I volunteered that if it did not hunt successfully, I would take it with me, rather than having it drowned.

I understood better my friend's situation when she confided her delicate condition later that night. In turn, I stated I would take the kitten with me, although I did advise her to keep a mouser in the household, mentioning casually the increasing rat population in London and stories I'd heard of children bitten by such vicious rodents. It was apparent my visit was going to be cut short much quicker than I would have liked, if only to assuage my friend's insecurity over her upcoming changes to her figure - and her life- with the addition of a child.

However the primary reason for leaving London became crystal clear upon a quick review of my chequebook. It was appallingly clear that I needed to begin earning money again, My current inquiry, intriguing and diverting as it was, needed to be abandoned for a profitable one, at least for now. Unfortunately, it was time to find a situation. I started writing my letters of inquiry that night with the kitten curled up on my lap, purring contentedly. I posted them the next morning on my usual stroll.

Within the week, a most promising letter returned to me. It was for a position as a music teacher for two young ladies at an estate in Derbyshire by the name of Pemberly. For a generous bonus I was also requested to perform two solo performances, for the Holiday and New Year's festivities. I wasted no time in writing back with my acceptance, adding of course that I would be bringing a kitten with which I was sure the young ladies would enjoy playing.

February 26th, 1891

Dearest Tania,

i am glad to say that Derbyshire has turned out to be a most charming situation. I am treated more like a guest than a staff member here and though the audience was smaller than I would have liked, I received the highest accolades for my performances at both the Christmas and New Year's Balls. My charges, twin girls, Eliza and Georgina, are not only willing and eager pupils but also both endowed with a moderate measure of vocal talent. Their voices blend well together, and they are a joy to listen to, as well as to teach. They are certainly a lively pair, waisting no time in trying to match me up with all the eligible men in the area (no one of interest at all, I might mention: all boring, stout, and windy in every which way), and then went on to tell me that I reminded them of their grandmother Lizzie. When I asked how, they both merely giggled. As I was upset to be compared to anyone's grandmother, I inquired of the staff; they insisted the girls were being nothing but a complementary, stating that the person in question was one of the most charming former mistresses of Pemberly. The older ones among them recalled her merry ways, her dancing eyes, and a particular knack for as teasing her husband into a better humor. They were most eager to how me the portrait hall with her picture, as well as those of all of the family. It was an impressive collection; most of the best artists of each era are represented in the hall. Interestingly enough, there was even a distant cousin with the name of Holmes.

Holmes. Even here I cannot escape that name, it seems. My ample free time is usually spent walking the grounds and reading in the most well endowed library. It is enlightening and somewhat diverting. However, I find these days, I am often left to muse on my own, far too often for my own good. The girls are eager to be off to London to be presented at court, as this is the year they come of age; I am not inclined to follow them along, as I find I have no more to teach them, either in piano or in vocal training. As spring approaches, I am increasingly restless, and find my mind keeps wandering back to that concert at Saint James' Hall and the following course of events. I am perplexed by the memory of that languid smile, as well as to why my photograph is locked in its owner's drawer. What was I thinking, leaving that bit of hair in that drawer? It was an impulsive move, and possibly a foolish one. Still, what's done is done. I cannot retract my action. I must move on from here; I am starting up inquiries into joining a touring company. I have heard of a few which are in need of a coloratura, and hope to be on the road soon.

I will keep you posted on my travels.

yours,

'Rene.

*********************************************************************************************************************************

_The ennui did not return that autumn, for subtle patterns were emerging in the crimes Holmes investigated, revealing the deft touch of that sinister spider at the center of it all, Moriarty. Holmes was consumed by the pursuit and planning to catch the master of crime, as well as all of his gang. One mid-winter afternoon Holmes was mulling facts that he had collected so far. In an introspective mood, he reached for his violin and found the resulting sound lacking. The bow was dry. He reached into his waistcoat pocket for the key for the drawer, intending to extract the rosin, and noted faint scratches at the edges of the lock. Opening the drawer, he immediately saw the hairpin and the small curl of dark chestnut hair._

"Mrs. Hudson!" The shout was deafening. " Come here! Someone has been in my rooms!"

Martha Hudson stood in the hallway, frowning. "As far as I know, Mr. Holmes, no one has in been here without you, since…"

"THINK!" It was a command, not a question.

"Er… well, there was that American, last fall, she stitched up the curtain … "

"An American? Go on…." his tone was more cajoling now,

"Yes… she knocked at the door, bold as brass, I recall. … We had tea… what was her name? Clara … I don't remember her giving me a last name, come to think of it. She stitched up the curtain, and went on her way. I didn't think it was worth mentioning, I was going to send it out for repair but then she showed up …'"

"How convenient. " he said dryly, then continued pensively, " An American named Clara … when was this?"

"It was … October, I'd think, just around the time that red headed gentleman came round, Mr. Wilson. "

"Ah… Thank you Mrs. Hudson. That is most enlightening."

As soon as she left the room, he dove for the index.

_Adler, Irene: b. June 28, 1858, as Clara Stephens, in Trenton New Jersey. Younger of 2 children …_

Holmes reached for his cherry pipe, stuffing it with shag and lighting it, thinking all the while. He did not notice he had failed to extinguish his match until it burnt his fingers.

She was in London? Why? Whatever was the purpose of this? There had been no mention of her return in the papers; he was certain he would have noted that, or, more likely, Watson would have mentioned it in his last visit, if only to tease. There was no note, no threat nor a request, merely a curl and a hairpin. Puzzling and most ...unusual. She'd even closed and re-locked the drawer.

Shaking his head, he picked up the rosin, attended to his bow. As he raised the Stradivarius to his chin and began to play, he let his thoughts wander. What was the meaning of this? Was it meant to be a scheme to distract him? Was it a warning? Could She be working for the Professor? This was beyond him for now. Better to focus on what he could do, bring down Moriarty's gang. If she were part of it, he'd find out soon enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The Darcy's were gracious enough to bring me to London with them. Though they had extended me an invitation of hospitality as well, I declined as I was no lonnger the girls' teacher. Frankly, I was also ready to be on my own, at least unntil I again found a company with which to sing. In-between auditions, I did a little research, taking a few strolls down Baker street, but found little there. Per the rag-tag assortment of urchins I encountetred on the street (only later did I come to know them as the Irregulars) , the nest of 221B was empty most of that winter.

Eventually, I settled upon joining a good company with a Maestro I had worked with in the past; he was not able to pay as well as some of the offers I'd had, but instead tempted me with something more challenging. As he was soon to retire to a more temperate climate, Monsieur offered the chance to train as his replacement as the head of the opera company. It was a considerable risk on his part, as well as a measure of how well he thought of me, and I relished the chance to spread my wings and play a larger role in the day-to - day operations. I accepted at once.

Our tour started in Berlin and slowly we traversed Germany and heading northwest towards Paris. Monsieur was pleased with how quickly I had learned and seemed more energetic now that he had handed over the day to day tasks of running the company to me. In addition, I tutored the two youngest girls in the company in both music and the languages necessary to succeed in this line of work. The French girl was coming along nicely, but the English one I would have just as soon sent home were it not that we were low in soprano voices at the time.

We had just entered into Alsace when the trouble started. At first it was just a few rumbles of discontent, then sneaky rumors, then it became clear that certain members of the orchestra were not happy with the Maestro's determination for me to take over the running of the company. Especially the string section, which for some reason especially irked me.

I suspected the first violinist, a Signore Baptista, as the primary complainant and that he was pressing his advantage on the others. As I could neither say nor do anything about it at the time, I carried on and held my tongue and my temper. I was merely biding my time until I could do something about it. It did, however, take every bit of my (not inconsiderable) will, especially when I noted the greedy, nastily lewd looks the Signore was throwing at "my girls" when he thought no one was looking.

The final straw finally fell just before we were to leave Alsace. As the heat had not yet settled into the south, the Maestro decided we should next head for Florence, rather than Paris. Most of the company was unruffled by this change of plan, but it brought out the worst in our first violinist. He took to gambling and drinking heavily on our days off. I was going to discuss the issues with the Maestro ,when things came to a sudden and startling head.

It was the week before we were to leave for Florence, our next-to- last free day before we moved on. I had sent Alicia and Margot to practice their vocalizations in the theatre for the experience of hearing the acoustics while I followed my weekly ritual of a bath and time alone. As was my custom, I had washed my hair and poured myself a glass of wine. I was sitting down to comb out my hair by the fire in my sitting room when there was an urgent knock at the door and the low murmur of Margot's voice.

"Madame? Madame! Open! Please! "

This sounded serious. I grabbed my robe and flung open the door to find Margot supporting a pale and anxious Alicia.

" my goodness, mes chers, whatever has occurred? Margot, get her into the chair she's half fainted!

"Oh... Madame... " Margot was close to tears. I handed her the glass of wine.

"Drink this. No... All of it, there's a good girl, and tell me what has happened to you both." I glanced at the younger, pale Alicia and noted the red marks on her wrists and the torn collar and blouse.

Alicia nervously looked at me here eyes downcast.

"Madame... You have been married, yes?". It was Margot speaking, but I was not taking my eyes off of Alicia.

"Well, I'd hardly let you two call me Madame otherwise, Margot!"

"Of course..." she blushed. "It is just that... Well... "

"Oh, spit it out! What is the matter?" I started to pour two more glasses of wine and refilled Margot's for good measure.

"Madame?"

I shook my head and knelt in front of Alicia,

"Tell me who it was who scared and hurt you so, child, for I cannot read minds.." She smiled a little at that, and looking me in the eyes, she started.

"It was... The Signore..."

"What happened? ," I did not want to ask, but had to.

"H-... He ..." her voice quavered, " He came in and - he was staggering, I think he must have been drunk ... and he... He tried to... "

"He tried to kiss her, and she fought him off. After he slapped her and tried to rip off her shirt, I banged him on the head with a music stand and we ran. " Margot interrupted flatly. " He tried to go after us but I banged him again and he fell and didn't get up that time. Madame, you don't think he might be ... Er.." /p>

"No, alas, I think he will only have both a very sore head at most, ma cher. You are safe now. And don't worry so!". I turned to Margot, arching an eyebrow and gesturing to inquire why her roommate was still so upset.

' "Uh, Madame, she thinks since she got kissed, she will... Er.." Margot rolled her eyes up in concentration as she translated her thoughts from French into English.

"She thinks she is ... Having baby? be cause he kiss her?"

I knew it was not kind, but this idea seemed so ridiculous to me that I could not help laughing.

Margot joined in after a minute; and when at last Alicia let out a giggle, releasing the tension, we were then quite unrestrained and hysterical for several minutes. (I would not have thought of Alciia as a snorter.) I then explained a just a bit further for the girls, enough to keep them out of danger, that no, merely kissing would not lead to a baby.

Thus reassured, I got them safely to bed.  
Once I was secure in knowing the girls were safe in their rooms and sleeping, I returned to my rooms to rest. I found sleep escaped me as my thoughts raced as I waited the dawn. I considered how to best approach this with the rest of the company. I could not be sure about the orchestra, but I was certain the others singers would not take well to an attempted assault on a girl young enough to be a daughter to some of them. I was going to need every bit of support I could muster on this issue, and quite possibly an entire string section.

At first light, I pulled on my "walking clothes" and took the back way to the theatre. The Signore was snoring loudly in the aisle with a moderate goose egg to his forehead, and reeking of cheap brandy. I quickly fetched his violin and case and using my boot to turn him onto his side, left him where he lay, barely suppressing my urge to kick. When I encountered the night watchmen, I gave them orders to send the Signore via cab directly to me and to let me know if anything else unusual occurred. A few gold sovereigns were enough to make it plain that it was to their benefit to listen to me. I then returned to my rooms and changed into less comfortable, if more suitable, attire.

My coffee was interrupted a few hours later when the Signore came stumbling in, storming that I give him back his violin and gain an apology for what he called an "unprovoked attack" upon his person. His blustering quickly stopped under my coldest and most scathing stare, as well as the realization I had my pistol cocked and pointed directly at him.

"Sir, you are dismissed."

"B-but- Madame- "

"Your presence here is no longer required. I shall retain your instrument. You can leave quietly, and accept this, or I shall hand you over to the local authorities and have you charged with attempted rape. As I understand it, Alsace is rather- medieval -in their punishment of such crimes. "

"Madame?" His voice was much weaker now.

"Well, yes, as I understand it, they don't take to kindly to people attempting to harm girls around here. I think, but am not entirely sure, that you are familiar with the term 'Castrati' are you not, Signore?" I kept my voice as calm as I could. " I am not sure what parts we might have available at this time, but."

His face turned a pale greenish color as he sprang for the door, scurrying away like a scared jackrabbit. I smiled in satisfaction, then drew my shades and curtains tightly shut and slept soundly for 4 hours to clear my head before I tackled any other issues.

Upon rising, I examined the instrument. It was a fine violin, a Vuillaume, as I had heard the Signore often boast about how much it cost him. I began to wonder how I was going to replace him in so short a time when a knock on the door interrupted. A note from my contact at the theater arrived simply stating, " Fuss at front door. Managed, but you asked to be notified."

I quickly made my way down stairs and caught a cab to the theatre, wondering just what kind of "fuss" I would be facing- an en masse revolt of the orchestra, the return of an enraged and more drunk Signore, perhaps the Maestro had returned and not agreed with my determination as to what to do about the incident. The possibilities seemed endless and I had not finished considering what I might be facing when I arrived to find two people I assumed to be the doormen, grotesquely large men with brutal, cruel faces, wrestling a beggar of some sort out of the entrance. I was about to turn away when I caught a flash of the beggars' keen grey eyes, which were strangely familiar. I felt compelled to act, as it was clear something was very wrong in this situation.

"Gentlemen!" I called merrily, "Is this absolutely necessary? Why I…"

I glanced at the man who returned my puzzed gaze with a strange and deathly look. Sherlock Holmes glared at me, startled and strnagely pleading, willing me not to say anything.

" Sirs, I … I know this man. He is an old friend, though certainly not whom I had expected! Come. Monsieur Renard," I continued, grabbing his arm, pushing him into the cab as I wrenched him away from the doormen, "… let us go somewhere more comfortable and talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . .Finally! These two, in the same place, at the same time. Laisser le Bon temps Rouler!! Well.. Eventually.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first minute we sat in silence, each regarding the other. I in surprise, he in what looked like weary resignation.

"Whom were you expecting, then?" His tone was acerbic.

I shrugged, and looked out the window, slightly piqued by his tone, then retorted, "Well, most certainly not you! "

Softening my tone, I continued, " I had rather expected a short Italian, stinking of drink- if you must know, I had just dismissed him for pawing at one of my protégées in my opera company. I am learning to run it on my own, you know." I could not keep the pride of my accomplishment out of my voice.

"Company... opera? You are performing... here?" he repeated faintly, sounding slightly incredulous.

"Well, we were as of two days ago." I responded primly. I was not clear where this line of inquiry was heading.

"My, how ... convenient." He said dryly and sat back in his seat, staring- no, glaring- at me.

I returned the gaze as calmly as I could and took a deep breath. There was no way he was going to trust me.

As quietly as I could, I leaned forward and murmured so that that he might just barely hear, "Monsieur … 'Renard'*, I can see -plainly- that you are in some sort of danger. You seem uncertain if I am involved in the plot. I would assure you that I am not, but I doubt greatly you would believe me."

He nodded warily, the grey eyes never ceasing to probe my expression.

"My company is headed for Italy- Florence to be exact- in a few days. I can assist you- hide you- until then. Or, as you wish, I can take you to anywhere you may choose. However, as I note the bottoms of your shoes are shredded beyond repair and there is a bullet hole that goes through the left sleeve of your coat and possibly your shirt, it just may be in your best interests to trust me- a little."

He looked at me stonily; I endured the scrutiny in silence.

"One question, first, Madame..."

"Yes?"

"Do the names James Moriarty, or more importantly, Sebastian Moran mean anything to you?'

"Moriarty and ... "

"Moran."

"Moran. " I thought for a moment. " Those are not names with which I am familiar. Should I be?"

His face was impassive; I could not tell if he believed me or not. Then he passed me a small envelope with two miniature photographs: I knew neither face at all, nor did I wish to look upon them again. .

"I do not know them, sir." I stated simply, shaking my head as I returned the envelope.

"Did you know those two gentlemen at the door of the theater at all?"

I shrugged and again shook my head. " No, they were strangers as well. Our usual doormen are not quite so... imposing."

"Harrumph. Well then. " With this, he then seemed to lapse into his own thoughts. I asked my driver to continue to drive around the town.  
*********************************************************************************************************************************  
Holmes' POV  
 _She had to be hiding something. She must be involved somehow. This was too easy._

_Yet, there are no threats and she has answered all my questions without a second of hesitation and no ... she is not... I must be losing my mind, agreeing to enter this carriage, and yet, what choice did I have? The alternative had been much worse._

_What is it she wants from me? I sense there is something... so why do I believe her when she insists she does not know either Moriarty or Moran?_

_Oh, dear god, I need to sleep ... to think …_

I was not aware that I had said the last musing aloud. Her reply startled me; I nearly jumped as she interrupted my train of thought.

"Very well, then. To the hotel?"

I arched an expressive eyebrow to find my expression perfectly mimicked, with a glint of humor. I believe she actually winked at me, daring me to defy her.

"I do have a sitting room for teaching my pupils, and am perfectly content to remain there whilst you rest. How many days have you been running? Three, perhaps four? No, it is better to stop now, and rest, before you collapse entirely. I promise, I shall not disturb you."

Her green eyes danced far too merrily on the word 'disturb'. I found this to be quite alarming, all the more so for my noting it.

I shrugged my consent, wondering all the while what the devil I was getting myself into.

"It would seem, Madame, that the choice has been made for me." I remarked as we pulled to the front of the hotel.


	7. Chapter 7

"It would seem, Madame, that the choice has been made for me already." he remarked as the carriage pulled in front of the hotel. I merely smiled, dismissing the remark as a sign of fatigue; there would be little gained by a teasing reply at this time. The hotel was quiet and nearly empty as we entered. As I often shuttled back and forth from the theater during the day, my return was not noted as out of the ordinary.

As we entered my small suite, I turned, secured the door behind me, and leaned my back against it with a small sigh of relief.

"Renard," he remarked, appearing to examine his fingernails. (I did not miss the grey eyes darting around the room, however.) "Was that the really best name you could come up with?" He then whirled around, scowling slightly, and inquired, "Why are the all the shades and curtains drawn? It is after noon!"

Rubbing my temple, I closed my eyes to quash the urge to grab the precious violin and smash it over his head; the mental image must suffice, as it would be a waste of a good instrument. " I had a rather late night, as well as a headache."

His expression was scornful as I heard him mutter, " My, that is convenient!"

My temper was flaring again as I held up my hand, and continued, "You certainly need not believe me, sir. Apparently, though my neglect regarding window coverings offends you, it does, of course, it also protect you. As I was not aware I would be entertaining on such short notice, I merely forgot to open them before I left."

A small smile threatened to twitch at the corner of his mouth, softening his expression slightly. "Not actually a problem, the windows," he commented, darting over and quickly peering out to the street from the side so as not to be seen. " ... I was merely curious."

"As for the name, " I shrugged, " Renard, as you know is French for fox. You grew up in the country, with fox hunting. You- erm- I was suddenly reminded of a fox, cornered, with the hounds poised to rip it to pieces on command. As for shreds, I may just be able to repair that jacket and coat, if I may have it, while you rest." I extended my hand for to take the jacket and coat.

After a moment of blinking, dazed confusion, he reluctantly complied, handing over the worn items. The slight sway of imminent collapse from exhaustion was apparent to me as gave a slight shove to propel him into the next room. As I closed the partition, I added, "Do mind the cat, she tends to get out and has a habit of putting mice in shoes."

"Charming." A long, elegant hand, holding a bloodied shirt and a sleepy ball of fur, appeared at the gap in the partition. My diminutive feline poured down onto the rug, yawning and stretching, settling immediately by the fireplace.

After completing the repairs to the clothes, I secured the shredded shoes and shirt into my usual hiding place, I removed myself from the room, locking the door and fully intending to keep to my usual routines. This was not to be however, for when I knocked on Margot and Alicia's door to remind them to review their vocal exercises I was greeted with showers of giggles and sly looks. Immediately I understood that my exit from the theater had not been unobserved by the girls, who would of course, assume the most completely vulgar and common explanation. I gave them my most severe glare, but to no use- they were relentless in their curiosity and would not be assuaged with my silence on the matter.

"Madame, who was he?" Margot was brave enough to venture.

"Mmm? Oh, a friend, come upon hard times, I assisted him to a more comfortable situation. " I replied absently. A solution to more than one problem had occurred to me.

I turned to Alicia and Margot and smiled, "Girls, let us indulge in a long lunch and shopping. I shall meet you in the lobby."

We spent the afternoon pleasantly enough, lingering over lunch, the two girls pestering me, I deliberately ignoring there extremely pointed questions. Eventually, I did mange to distract them. We poured over the newest fabrics and styles, considered a light blue watered silk for a new gown for Alicia, and selected new trimmings for one Margot's many battered hats. They were in high spirits as I sent them back to the hotel in the carriage, laughingly telling them there was no room for me with all their purchases, and stating I needed the exercise and so would walk home.

I walked in the direction of the hotel, lingering until I was sure that those in the carriage could no longer see me, then I doubled back to the fabric shop, selected two choice bolts of fabric, leaving them with the ruined shirt and a detailed note for my tailor (with whom I'd entrusted my latest request for a set of 'walking clothes') and dropped off the shoes which I'd hidden in my bustle at the cobbler.

When I returned to my rooms, I peered in past the partition, mostly to reassure myself

That my 'guest 'was still present. A small beam of light streamed across the room illuminating the sleeper's face. He was snoring very slightly, arm flung over his head, covering his face. The covers were tightly twisted; it seemed his sleep had once been uneasy. His breathing was now even, and he was now apparently sleeping deeply. Even with his face relaxed in sleep, hair mussed, I noted the expressions of worry and grief etched into his countenance. I did not wish to think on what could cause such distress, shivering with a sudden jolt of fear as I wondered what the devil I'd gotten myself into.

When it became clear I was dining alone, I rang for supper, setting aside some of the more durable items for later. I studied again the company's next production, Wagner's "Tristan and Isolde", reviewing and marking the score for dynamics both for the orchestration and singers. After my repast, I Settled myself onto the settee and put my feet up, I continuing to taking notes, this time reviewing the libretto for costume and scenery needs. I heard the mattress creak; occasionally I glanced at the partition. Eventually I nodded off, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the comforting presence of the cat, who stretched herself along the length of my leg, and purred contentedly.

A light rap at the door woke me the next morning with the delivery of the repaired shoes and new suits, with three shirts, which I placed just inside the partition. I rang the kitchen for a hearty breakfast, requested extra hot water and nearly ran to the Maestro's hotel two streets away. We conferred on the situation with the Signore, and I shared my hopes of a potential solution. To my immense relief, he was in complete agreement on the dismissal, and chuckled at my threat to the Signore. I walked back to my hotel humming slightly. It was going to be a good day.

I arrived back at my rooms just as breakfast arrived. I winked at my usual server and took the tray from him with a jaunty air. I waited, humming, to unlock the door, until I was certain I was alone in the hallway.

A/N:  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *renard= fox in French
> 
> Thanks to MoonspunDragon for the beta-ing and my LJ pals for the moral support when I needed it. New job is keeping me busy, family keeps me even more so!


	8. Chapter 8

As I opened the door, my hands laden with the tray, I was flooded with a peculiar and unfamiliar unease. I wryly grinned when I finally placed the feelings as being nervous, then promptly chided myself.   
It seemed rather absurd, but considering who I was hiding, as well as the fact that I was hiding him without any idea about those from whom he was running, nerves were not entirely illogical. I shook my head and wondered again why, on earth, was I doing this.   
I had no idea what I was actually doing or why, but that was part of the appeal.

I set the tray down on the side table, poured myself a cup of coffee, and picked at one of the chef's excellent sweet rolls, listening for any stirring in the next room. I had nearly finished - and was considering leaving to check in on the girls- when I heard a groan and a yawn. My visitor was awake at last, but not quite up for company or interaction just yet. At that point, I fled. I did manage a cheerful call about food on the table and hot water in the pitcher.

I returned an hour and half later, relieved to find that my guest had groomed to his usual cat-like standard, dressed in one of the new suits and was attacking the breakfast tray with ferocity.

"I'm afraid I must have gotten the wrong first impression, monsieur."

His grey eyes flashed for the briefest of moments then crinkled at the side as he caught my teasing tone. He half smiled, and bid me continue with a most expressive eyebrow.

"You are no fox. You, sir, are a wolf."

He chuckled appreciatively as he drained his coffee cup. "And this, I suppose, is my 'sheep's clothing'?"

"Not exactly..."

Men and their insufferable pride! The irritation did me some good, though, clearing my head.

"A bribe, then. " The flint was back in his eyes.

I returned his gaze steadily, determined not to rise to the bait. "I would prefer the term 'advance'; you can call it what you will."

"Explain." This was in only slightly less frosty a tone.

"Simply put, I find myself missing a ... Well, not missing per se, but in need of a lead violinist for the orchestra of this opera company. You find yourself in need of concealment to remove yourself from this area. It occurs to me that these needs... are complementary."

(Good god was I babbling now?)

"And ... If should I refuse?" he barked out harshly.

I snorted at that. "The only danger would be ... being foolish for missing an opportunity. This is your choice. I can- and will -manage without a full string section. Consider the clothes a gift."

He nodded slowly.

"But- if you could- at least give me your opinion as to the violin; I am not well-versed enough to tell you if it is worth using..."

"Violin? You took away the man's instrument?" He turned on his heels and looked at me directly now, more interested than angry, though the gaze was still as keen as a razor. The rest of my thought evaporated as I could feel the back of my neck prickle with flush under the scrutiny. 

"I was ... I was beyond angry. He threatened my pupils—two young girls—while drunk. I could think of no worse punishment than to deny him his means of his living, or at least, something he valued. In any case, I would have thought you would have found the instrument already" - I walked over and retrieved the case, "... I would appreciate your independent appraisal of the instrument, as a fellow musician; I admit to knowing little about strings."

Now I was repeating myself; perhaps I had not slept as well as I had thought on the settee. "Really, monsieur, I am nearly insulted you did NOT search my rooms. Is that not what you do?" I smiled wearily. 

He caught the playful tone, and responded in kind. "Not in this case. I can assure you, I might have if I had known there was such a prize to be obtained. Normally I look only if and when hired to do so, or if I have cause for investigation."

Smiling, I extended the violin case to him. "The instrument is yours to investigate. Do let me know your conclusions, as well as your decision about joining the troupe, but please do not dawdle, for time is of the essence- the Maestro is expecting you to audition at two o'clock." I paused a moment to quietly add, " Perhaps a small respite among musicians may provide some... comfort to you. Will you, please, consider it?" I sailed out the door, only hoping that my voice did not shake quite as much as my knees did.

When I returned from my walk through the local park, (my nerves could not bear another encounter with giggling pupils), I was mildly encouraged to hear the quiet plucking of strings through the door. Suddenly they stopped, replaced by a mild oath, then, and even more unexpected, a deep rich chuckle. I could contain my curiosity no more, and turned the key to find the detective sitting on the settee, the violin and bow at his side, my little mouser sitting in his lap.

"I suppose this fluffy...thing has a name?" he inquired, scratching her ears and burying his long hands in her fur. She responded by sprawling and arching her back, acting most... indecently affectionate. I could not help but stare at them as his long fingers stroked and she purred louder than I had ever heard. .

I had to bite the inside of my lip to regain some measure of self-control and keep from gaping. "Er, yes.. Quinn , short for Harlequin, for her, her facial markings. But... she never acts like this! She usually bolts if there is anyone else in my rooms..."

_Most definitely babbling... Just stop!_

"It seems an exception has been made."

"So I see." I remarked dryly. "I expect one feline recognizes another."

_Focus- think of business. But was he smiling? Yes, at least a half-smile..._

"Have you concluded your investigation of the instrument? Are you... " I trailed off, scowling as Quinn stretched and made her way off the settee, strutting her way into the next room. "Will you accompany the troupe into Italy?"

He shrugged as he packed up the violin and bow. "It would seem a change in strategy is in order. The former owner did not treat it kindly- one can see that by how dry the strings are, just here, but overall it is a passable instrument. I suppose there are worse places than Florence in the spring; it is not where I would travel of my own accord, certainly."

"That is rather the idea." I chanced a glance up, and a rather saucy grin. " Well, then, if you are ready, I think it most prudent to bring the Maestro to you, and leave you to the audition."

I spent the interval fetching cream for Quinn.

(Of course, there was never a question about it, but the Maestro was impressed by the audition anyway. He told me many months later that he had rarely heard a more thoughtful rendition of Wagner.)

There was a whirl of packing and re-arranging to be done and by evening we were off.


End file.
